


Bootlicker

by Vrunka



Series: Version 2.0 [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Breathplay, Gavin gets put in his place, M/M, Throat stepping, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 02:45:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15063311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: RK900 knocks Gavin down a few pegs on the DPD food chain.





	Bootlicker

**Author's Note:**

> Mmmm I don’t even know.

“You need to stop moving so much,” the bot says. Emotionless. Clinical. Gavin bristles at the tone. Would bite back with something scathing if his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied.

The tin man’s tie tastes faintly of detergent. Someone has been washing its clothes. The fucking thought is surreal.

But then again, this whole thing is rather surreal.

The RK900’s hand flexes, presses harder, right down between Gavin’s shoulder blades. Gavin’s shirt sticks to his skin with his sweat. It’s pouring from him. Prickling, sticky and uncomfortable. If the android above him notices, it doesn’t comment on it. Maybe logs the detail away in that goddamn computer head.

Sends the information back to fucking CyberLife.

Big brother watching in more ways than one. Big brother recording Gavin’s kinks for God knows what reason.

“Your heart rate has tripled,” the bot says. It’s fingers curl and Gavin lets out an undignified, heaving shudder. His legs twitch, knees sliding further apart to angle himself more into the RK900’s grip. “I thought you didn’t enjoy this treatment, Detective.”

Fuck you, Gavin wants to say. His tongue navigates the tie stuffed in his mouth, trying to free itself. Working his jaw. He grunts again when the RK900’s fingers prod him open further. Dragging a thumb along the cleft of his ass. The soaked material does little to muffle the sound. The raw, human need of it.

They aren’t exactly hidden.

This isn’t exactly private.

He should probably stop cornering the robot in places with no cameras. It can’t end well. RK900 is not Anderson’s little pushover.

Case and point: this, here, now. Bent over a desk in one of the old office rooms with the android’s tie tangled around his tongue and his own pants caught around his shins. 

Or other times, many times in the weeks since CyberLife sent their latest model to the precinct. Gavin has the bruises to prove it. Like a capsizing ship, unable to navigate the new and choppy waters of their power dynamic.

And the worst part—the worst part is the goddamn thing knows. It knows. It bruises Gavin up, hands around Gavin’s throat to keep him in line because it knows he won’t go to Fowler over it. Can’t go to Fowler over it. His ego would never live it down.

A finger flicks hard, hard against the swell of Gavin’s ass. Rudely awakening him back to this. To bent over the desk. To submissive and liquid.

Gavin twitches.

“You know, Detective, I’m not sure I should give you this. You won’t learn your lessons, that is, if you enjoy it too much.”

His fucking lessons. He won’t learn them anyway. Gavin is nothing if not a creature of habit. And the RK900’s threat holds such little weight regardless. Another dry finger traces up the seam of Gavin’s ass. Contrary to his words.

“Fuck off,” Gavin manages to hiss. Speech blurry and thick around the waded up tie. The RK900 doesn’t chuckle, it’s hands freeze where they are cradling Gavin’s hips.

“Oh, Detective,” it says. “We have talked about this.”

And then the world goes sideways. The RK900 moves Gavin like it is nothing, like he is nothing, no weight, no heft. There’s a hand in his mouth, the ceiling above him, tumbling, RK900’s cold, blue eyes, tumbling, the dusty floor.

The ceiling again.

Gavin groans as his back meets the unyielding floor, weight returning with a cruel slam. His breath leaves him in a rush, pushed from his lungs on impact.

He doesn’t get the chance to drag another breath in. RK900’s foot crushing down on his throat stops that thought where it lands.

They’re supposed to be programmed unable to harm humans—androids, that is—it’s supposed to go against the coding, cause immediate and irreparable shut down. Gavin’s read the fucking documents more times than he can count since the goddamn uprising scare.

But RK900 deals out pain like it is second nature. Its mood ring light doesn’t even seem to register when it does it.

Gavin scrabbles, his fingers arching uselessly on the tile beneath his hands. His throat fluttering, bobbing in his sudden bright panic. The sole of RK900’s shoe doesn’t lift, doesn’t give. Gavin’s brain swims. Oxygen-less. Everything feels out of proportion. Details that shouldn’t matter are suddenly the world.

RK900’s soaked tie hangs from its fist. Swaying slightly with the kiss of gravity. Like a pendulum it goes. Hypnotic. Gavin blinks. His eyes are too dry, lids dragging over them like sandpaper.

And he can’t breathe.

He can’t fucking—

“Will you behave for me,” RK900 asks. Still so cold and so calculated and so dry. “I would prefer if you did not lose consciousness, Reed. Wouldn’t you prefer something satisfying rather than being found by the janitor after hours with your jeans around your knees. You don’t need the rumors circling, Detective. You’re in enough shit as it is.”

Gavin can barely interpret the words. The delay in his brain stretching and molding around each one so it’s like he has to focus extra hard just to parse the meaning. It’s easier with air. His legs kick uselessly against the floor.

His head wriggles.

It must be the right thing.

Must be what the android wanted. The foot lifts, marginally, and sweet, sweet oxygen floods Gavin’s mouth. Fills his throat. His lungs. Expanding so quickly on an inhale so rough his entire body quakes and shivers. It hurts like ripping a bandaid off hurts.

Hurts in the cruelest, sweetest sort of way.

Gavin crumbles, groaning. There’s tears in the corners of his eyes. Air, air, air in his chest and on his tongue.

The fact that he has an erection is almost a secondary detail.

Wouldn’t be a detail at all if his pants weren’t still pushed down way off his hips. Gavin blinks up at RK900’s passive face. His fingers spasm. His cock twitches.

The foot has yet to lift completely. And Gavin—fuck Gavin doesn’t want it to move. He does of course. But he doesn’t. Fuck, goddamn it. God, God, God.

His hands are shaking, palsied and weak, as he lifts them. One perfect, shaped eyebrow raises in response. But the light is blue. The all clear. This is okay.

Well.

It’s not okay but but but it is what it is.

Gavin’s fingers wrap around the circumference of RK900’s ankle. Both hands. Slim as its build appears, there is nothing weak or soft about it.

Nothing at all. The machine beneath his palms flickers with micro-motions that don’t occur in human skin. A thousand moving parts to make up the whole.

This is a fucking machine.

And Gavin is goddamn hard for it.

He’s looking up at this machine’s face, the perfect, plastic symmetry of it. Not even a mark from where he had tried to headbutt his way past earlier. All that perfect skin. That icy, immobile frown.

Gavin squeezes the ankle in between his hands.

Without a word or a sign, the pressure returns. Following the urging of his hands.

Cutting off his air once again. Gavin’s eyes flutter shut. His mouth gapes. Against his belly his cock has begun to leak, the sticky head jerking against his own abs, peeking from the foreskin.

“Aren’t you going to touch yourself, Reed,” RK900 says. The closest to emotion it’s gotten this whole time. Almost smug.

Gavin’s fingers dig harder against the plastic, the expensive material of RK900’s slacks getting stained with the sweat from his palms. He isn’t going to touch himself, isn’t going to jerk off like a fucking animal for this thing. This hunk of plastic and programming. He would rather die.

Would rather apologize to Anderson’s fucking android. Would rather be looking up at its soft face, it’s warm eyes. Trusting. Programmed to good for this fucking shit. God, shit, shit, shit. This wasn’t-wasn’t in the game plan. Wasn’t—

The foot lifts. Gavin’s hips stutter, humping the air. Uncontrollable motion. His tongue presses against the roof of his mouth as his body reflexively inhales again.

Gasping.

And in the exhale...

It just slips out. Past his lips before he can rein it back. Into the air and existence and being. “Connor—“ two syllables that manage to slip past the foot on his throat. The shoe crushing down on his Adam’s apple.

RK900’s face doesn’t move. Not even a twitch in the plastic muscle. Synthetic sinew. It’s eyes don’t narrow. It’s chest doesn’t heave.

But it’s little light goes yellow. Bright and cyclical and then red, red as it processes that gasped and choking “Connor—“ that fucking wrecking ball of a whisper.

The foot presses down.

Gavin’s breathing effectively stops. Goodbye sweet air. Thanks for fucking nothing.

The abused skin of his throat aches, screams at the pressure. Something will give, has to give. Rupture. Gavin can feel it, a tension under the unrelenting pressure. A balloon under a concrete block, head full of stale and useless air, hissing between his teeth and leaving him nothing.

“I said touch yourself,” RK900 says. “This time it’s an order.”

And Gavin doesn’t have the strength in him to argue.

One shaky hand lowers to his cock, tugging on it mercilessly as RK900’s foot lifts just quick enough for him to draw a breath before slamming back down again. Gavin’s skull, knocks against the linoleum flooring. Seeing stars and vibrating colors. Pleasure, the worst, worst kind of pleasure, building in his gut. Shameful and delirious with every stolen shot of oxygen.

RK900 does not praise him. It looks vaguely disgusted. Lip raised just slightly, showing it’s teeth. A wrinkle in the skin of its nose. Distaste and judgement. Gaze sticking to Gavin’s skin like something dirty. Viscous and horrible.

Gavin slides his finger along slit of his cock, fingers coming away just as gross and coated as he feels. Sweating in his hoodie, sweat in his hairline, dripping down his jaw. His hips snap. His eyes slide closed.

Orgasm, that building, grinding end leads him to a shuddering halt. He opens his mouth, throat working over nothing. Unable to snatch any air from under that fucking shoe.

And then, mercifully, air. His cock jerks, coming all over himself, his hand and his stomach in weak pulses. It misses the rucked up hem of his sweatshirt. Small miracles.

“My predecessor could not have given you this,” RK900 says. “You’re pathetic, Detective Reed.”

And he is. He can’t argue it.

Can’t.

Not at all.

His body thrums. Aching all over. Not just his throat or his ego or his face but everything. It all hurts.

He swallows, flinches. There will be a bruise, ambiguous and purple-red and too high up on his goddamn neck to hide. There will be questions. Inquiries. Snickers behind the hands of his coworkers.

And he can’t argue with any of it.

“Get up,” RK900 says. “We have taken too long already.” It’s foot moves; Gavin’s fingers, boneless, fall away from where he was holding it. They curl on his chest, over his still-rapidly beating heart. “I said: get up, Detective.”

Slowly, Gavin moves. Sits up. It’s an ordeal. Lightheadedness at the first change in altitude. A dipping, threatening darkness.

He’s saved from face-planting the floor by steady, strong hands. Grabbing him by the shoulders, pulling his weight off his ass. Gavin sags into RK900’s arms as the android wipes him down, fixes his pants.

It’s hands are efficient-quick and impersonal as they tuck his cock back into his underwear, as they smooth his zipper over the bulk of his crotch. Gavin breathes.

He doesn’t know what to say.

What to do.

He’s still in the tailspin from earlier. The floor and ceiling flip-switching places in his head. Off-kilter.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says finally. “That thing about—shit. It’s—“

“We are at work, Detective Reed, perhaps a discussion of personal matters would be better conducted off-hours and off premises.”

“What?” Gavin says. Flinching again because unless he’s losing his mind, it sounded like the fucking android just asked him to meet after work.

“I’m sorry, was my wording not clear enough for you to comprehend? If you wish to discuss this matter further then perhaps after work would be a more suitable time.”

Yeah okay. Definitely. This is so far from the status quo. So far from their routine. Underwater still, surreal and slow motion.

Gavin’s hand, wrapped around the back of it’s neck mostly for balance, trembles. Gavin can feel the jumping muscles, both his own and RK900’s, internal processes. His thumb runs up into the bottom of RK900’s hairline, surprisingly soft, even here, where the hair is short and shaped.

“I have things to do, Detective. A yes or no to my inquiry will suffice.”

Gavin blinks. His tongue slides over his lips. His throat is a column of pain, not aches, not muted, but bright present pain. Sharp with every swallow, every bob of his Adam’s apple.

But...but fuck it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posted WITH ART to a shiny new Twitter: https://twitter.com/connorsdlcdick/status/1011727599100485632?s=21
> 
> Keep an eye on that for more spicy pics and possible updates and as always comments/Kudos what have you are always appreciated!!!


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